


Seconds Between Light and Sound

by theoneinquisitor



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: A nice combo of angst and comedy, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Bellamy Has Feelings, Bellarke, Bellarke January Joy, Blind! Clarke, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I really don't know how to tag this tbh, Morbid Humor, mentions of depression, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 18:56:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17514113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneinquisitor/pseuds/theoneinquisitor
Summary: Clarke does what any adult would do in her situation, one that has been, according to doctors, developing for years. She sells all her shit, stops taking care of herself, and moves in with a stranger. She also gets a cat.





	1. roommate wanted

Clarke does what any adult would do in her situation, one that has been, according to doctors, developing for years. She sells all her shit, stops taking care of herself, and moves in with a stranger. She also gets a cat.

The _situation_ , in this case, means _retinitis pigmentosa._ When Clarke asked the doctor to explain it in non-medical terms, he simplified it to: “You’re going blind.” It takes a while to get to that exact prognosis, mostly because she sort of stumbled into it accidentally. It started because she finally broke down and decided to get glasses after years of putting it off out of sheer stubbornness. She was tired of not being able to read street signs until she was already passing them and having to sit in the front of the class because the teacher’s handwriting was fucking tiny. She's never seen well at night, but she figured it was an astigmatism (according to WebMD it was that or cancer, and she was absolutely certain she could rule _that_ out). The catalyst was simple: a peculiar incident on date with a simple comment about the stars (astronomy majors, you know?) and Clarke realized she couldn't fucking see them. 

So one eye test turned into two, and that escalated into specialists and a whole lot of jargon she still doesn't quite understand. But, she did manage to learn a  _few_ things. Turns out, her inability to see in the dark isn't actually normal and people don’t just see flashing lights in their retinal field. She learned that having to eat Excedrin Migraine like candy in college due to the fluorescent lighting was unhealthy and even though those lights do suck, normal people don’t have to lay in the dark an hour after being exposed because their head was exploding.

Which brings her to:  _developing for years._ Synonymous with  _happening since birth,_ but her parents never had the decency to tell her because, “Hey, there’s only a 50/50 chance she’ll have it and we’ll cross that road when we get to it.” Except her parents divorced, her mom ran off to Chicago where she married a senator, and her dad died when she was 20 leaving her completely in the dark about her condition. 

She’s coping with the inevitable the best way she knows how.

“You are absolutely fucking insane, I hope you know that.” Raven’s glare is fierce despite coming from a small box in the corner of her computer. Clarke is scrolling through Craigslist ads _seriously,_ which she didn’t think was a thing, but is the only semi-legitimate website she’s found when it comes to looking for a roommate.

“It’s your fault for moving to a different country. Just had to be a fucking rocket scientist, didn’t you?”

“Are you seriously blaming my intelligence for your genetic disease and subsequent quarter life crisis?”

“Maybe.”

Raven snorts. “You’re right. Had it not been for my high I.Q, you would definitely not be making the dumbest decision of your life.”

“Hm, no I think dating Finn takes that award, but this might be a close second.”

“I hate you.”

“Whatever, listen to this one.”

She learns quickly that any ad offering ‘free rent’ is almost always a scam and that there are a lot of people seeking a ‘fun, female roommate’ who are more than likely middle aged men in a mid-life crisis.

“Maybe a sugar daddy would be good for you,” Raven says. “Medical bills are expensive and aren’t you like, in double digits these days?”

It’s true. She is. Which is, in large part, the reason she’s looking for a roommate to begin with. She’s a freelance artist with a steady enough workflow to cover living expenses and few nights out at the bar. Not enough to live on and pay off the increasing debt she’s accruing in addition to said expenses. As if adulting wasn’t hard enough, she had to go and get a genetic disorder.

“You could always call your mom.” Raven adds as an afterthought. Hypothetically, she could. Despite being absent since the divorce, she paid for Clarke’s schooling and consistently tries to reach out. She would give Clarke whatever she asked for.

“I think I’ll take my chances with the random roommate.”

Clarke browses Craigslist for hours, outlasting Raven, who decides on hour three that it’s time for bed and to text her when she finds something. Just as she's about to call it a night, she tells herself one more. What can it hurt?

The ad title isn’t anything spectacular. _Roommate wanted,_ it says. She clicks the link and a pictures pops up.  Rather than a complex, it’s a house. An old Victorian by the looks of it, cream colored brick and intricate archways stretching along windows and doorways. She likes it. Underneath the picture, there’s a small blurb.

_Looking for a roommate as soon as possible. Gender doesn’t matter. Two bedroom apartment, well-kept. Third floor.. Fully furnished with laundry in the basement. Near campus and Central Park. Only a ten minute walk to the train. I have a cat. He’s an asshole, but won’t bother you as long as you don’t bother him. Rent is negotiable. Only serious inquiries, please._

The fact that it’s a third-floor room with laundry in the basement should automatically disqualify it because the less stairs the better. But the ad also says ‘gender’ instead of ‘fun, female’ and also says the cat is an asshole, which honestly might be what sells it to her. She clicks on the contact info and jots it down. _Bellamy Blake._ He gives his email instead of his phone number and she can’t tell if that’s a red flag or not but decides maybe he’s just trying to protect himself from the unsolicited nudes that so often come from the dark side of Craigslist. Wells once tried to sell his car on here and made the mistake of putting cell number up. The amount of dick pics he got was hilariously tragic.

She opens up her email and click on the compose new message button. She types his information in before hesitating over the keyboard. How professional are these things supposed to be? She decides to stop overthinking and go with it, because, hell, what does she have to lose?

**To: BBlake@gmail.com**

**From: CGriff92@gmail.com**

**Subject: Interested in Renting**

_Hey there,_

_I found your ad on Craigslist and was checking to see if it was still available. I’m a huge fan of asshole cats, so you really won me over there. I would love to check it out. I’m free virtually any time, so just let me know what works for you. I look forward to hearing back._

\-           _Clarke_

She hits send, deciding to quit while she’s ahead and closes her laptop, sitting it on the other side of the bed as she sinks into the covers. One email isn’t much, but she chooses to call it a success.

* * *

She has an answer when she wakes up, which is unfortunately a bit later than anticipated thanks to her wild night on Craigslist. She audibly groans when she checks the time on her phone before opening the email app to check. She spots the familiar unread symbol and clicks it open, zooming in on the text.

**To: CGriff92@gmail.com**

**From:BBlake@gmail.com**

**Subject: Re: Interested in Renting**

_Hey,_

_The room is still available. The asshole cat seems to have deterred a lot of people, so glad to hear someone finds it endearing. I have class until two today, but am free anytime after that. If today doesn't work, just send me your schedule and I can work something out._

_Best,_

_Bellamy_

She hates that she immediately feels relieved when he mentions class, like a college student can’t turn out to be a major creep or serial murderer. She had planned on painting most of the day, having waited last minute to prep her piece for the fall gallery event,  and is supposed to meet some guy to pick up the nightstands she posted on Facebook Marketplace at one-thirty. Whatever, she decides, she can make it work.

_I can be free around three or so to come by. You can text me the address. – Clarke_

She hits send and less than two minutes later her phone buzzes.

**Unknown Number [11:51am]**

_It’s Bellamy. Three works for me. Address is 1269 Willow Ave. I hope you don’t murder me._

She decides she likes him already.

**Clarke [11:53am]**

_I’ll see you then. No promises on the murder._

Time passes quickly and while she does manage to get the nightstands picked up and sixty bucks in her pocket, she’s running late. She throws on a thin sweater and her only pair of leggings that haven’t been cursed by blown out thighs, and snaps picture for Raven.

**Clarke [02:46pm]**

_This is what I’m wearing. If you don’t hear from me in like two hours, I’m probably dead in the woods somewhere. I’ll miss u._

**Raven [02:47pm]**

_Wow, for someone who might die, you really didn’t dress well. At least brush your hair._

She hails an Uber on her phone and lays it down on the counter, running the brush through her hair with much reluctance and pulling day old tangles from her curls. Once she makes it look semi-presentable, a little water and dry shampoo goes a long way, she decides to _really_ go all out and add a bit of mascara and foundation to cover the dark circles under her eyes. Her phone dings to let her know her ride is outside and she rushes out the door, purse swinging behind her and knee slamming into a box she left too close to the entryway.

Her anxiety doesn’t hit her until they’re a few minutes away, passing through a neighborhood of old houses and multi-colored trees. Absently, she thinks about a time when ‘multi-colored’ will be nothing more than imagination but shakes it off because right now is not the time to start going into her BID, as Raven calls it, or her blind-induced depression. At the same time, however, she also wonders how to bring it up with her future potential roommate. Does she tell them right away? Does she wait? It’s not like she’s blind, _yet,_ and she doesn’t care much for pity.

“We’re here,” the driver says, pulling up to the sidewalk. She thanks him, giving him a five-star rating solely for the fact that he didn’t try to talk to her.

The apartment is, luckily, easy to find. She had been slightly worried it would be one of those _you’ve arrived but there’s no sign and you have to walk around the block three times to find it_ deals. It looks better than in the picture, well-kept despite its age. It sticks out, sitting between two buildings with the same burnt red brick and same boring design. She walks under the archway, greeted by a bright yellow door that she isn’t sure she likes, but appreciates the character it adds.

The stairs do suck, she decides once she reaches the first landing. They’re steep and rickety and the railing feels like it’s one screw away from falling off. By the time she reaches the third floor, she’s out of breath and her vision is black around the edges, more so than when she first started. There is only one door at the top of the stairs and she knocks quietly before she can talk herself out of it. She’s not convinced she wants to live somewhere that requires this much exercise, but she came all this way. It’d be rude not to check it out. Plus, the cat.

The door swings open and she’s not sure what she expected, but it definitely wasn’t this. Bellamy, she presumes, is a whirlwind of dark curls and strong features, a sharp jaw, made even sharper when he smiles at her. He looks like he’s carved out of bronze, like one of the sculptures they keep at the gallery, and honestly, she thinks she might be drooling.

To be fair, it’s been a while since she's interacted with a man aside from her doctor or Wells and even longer since she was actually attracted to one. Sue her.

“Clarke?” he questions.

“Hi.” She blinks, finally pulling her eyes up to meet his. He’s smirking at her now and honestly, that’s fair. She was blatantly checking him out.

He pushes the door open fully and gestures for her to come in. Her feet move of their own accord because her brain has still short circuiting, and shuts the door behind them.

“So, this is the apartment,” he starts, and she thinks he almost sounds as nervous as she is. “We have the whole top floor.”

The whole top floor insinuates that the apartment is large, but it isn’t. Less than 800 square feet with an open floor plan that makes it look like one giant room. A lot of potential to be cluttered, but she can tell already that Bellamy is a neat freak. There’s no dust. The kitchen is spotless. His bookshelf is fucking alphabetized and when she spots the record player in the corner, she just knows the records probably are, too.

“You’re a college student?” she asks, mostly for the sake of making conversation. He’s just standing near the couch, a cute little blue and gray loveseat, watching her browse.

“Yeah. Grad Student at Ark U.”

“What are you studying?”

“History, with a focus on ancient civilizations.”

“What do you want to do with it?”

He pauses and then shrugs. “Teach, probably.”

“Damn,” she’s standing at his bookshelf, running her fingers gently along the worn spines. There are a lot of classics. Epic poems. A handful of non-fiction. She wonder how many of these he’s actually read and how many are used to buff up the bookshelf. “You’re kind of a nerd, aren’t you?”

Maybe she shouldn’t tease a guy she just met five minutes ago who has the power to decide whether she lives here or not. But fuck it.

“Admittedly,” he says, to her surprise, and laughs. She likes the way it sounds, a deep rumble in his chest somewhere that catches as it leaves his throat. He’s probably read every single book, she decides. She turns back towards him.

“And a hipster?” She nods at the record player.

“Closeted.”

She smiles. “Good to know. Maybe stay away from growing a beard until you’re ready to come out.”

The tension eases its way out after that, and he finally offers to show her the bathroom, small, spotless, and built with a lot of storage options, and bedrooms. Or, room as it turns out. He opens the door and let’s her wander in. The room is small. A full bed in the middle, a single dresser with a lamp on the left wall. The right wall isn’t a wall at all, but an accordion sliding door that looks newer than the rest of the place, like it had been put in just recently to cut one bedroom into two.

“Did you put this in?”

“No, it came this way. I guess so he could lease it as a two bedroom instead of one. Or one big one for someone who didn’t care.” He fiddles with the doorknob. “It’s been kind of a deal breaker for most people. Not a lot of privacy, you know?”

As she stares at it, she realizes that she isn’t that opposed to it. She doesn’t believe for a second that in a building like this, a wall would provide any more privacy than the door. Just another thin slab splitting the rooms but not offering much more.

“I thought the cat was a deal breaker?” she says finally. “Which, I’m disappointed I haven’t met him yet.”

“He’s probably sitting on the roof or something. Avoiding people.”

When she raises an eyebrow in curiosity, he signals for her to follow him next door to his room. Like the apartment, it’s tidy and well-decorated. There’s a painting of the world map above his bed, which is covered by a midnight blue comforter and an outrageous amount of pillows.

“I think I found the deal breaker,” she says, staring at his bed. “Who sleeps with that many pillows?”

“Judge all you want, but my back never hurts when I wake up.”

“Your pride should.”

He looks at her like he’s trying not to smile, but his lip is lifted slightly on the right and she feels a thrill of success running through her.

“There he is.” He’s holding the curtains open and pointing outside. She approaches the window and looks out, swallowing the wince that normally comes with the sudden exposure to bright light. Her vision, thankfully, decides to focus and she spots the cat sitting on the edge of the roof staring out at the road. She doesn’t know breeds of cat well, but this one definitely looks like a mix of many. It’s fur is patchy and short, but it’s tail is fluffy as is waves behind him.

“Catsby,” Bellamy calls out. The cat is unbothered.

“Catsby?” she repeats.

“Like _The Great Catsby_.”

The stupid cat pun should not be the thing that sways her to move in with him. There are plenty of more logical reasons not to: stairs, bad handrail, tiny apartment with a ton of hazards.

She calls out to the cat and Bellamy lets out a surprised noise when the cat looks back at her, tilting his head curiously. She’s not sure what to do next, so she waves at it. “I hear you’re a dick.”

“Holy shit,” Bellamy breathes. Catsby stands from his perch and approaches her, meowing dramatically as if to say _how dare you call me names!_

He sticks his head in the window and she reaches down to let him get a whiff of her scent. She expects him to swipe at her hand or move on with his life, but after a moment, he shoves his head under fingers, demanding to be pet.

“He doesn’t seem so bad,” she comments with a smile, scratching behind his ears, “I’m starting to think you made the whole thing up to lure innocent people like me into your murder dungeon.”

“Caught me.” This time he does smile. She likes it. It’s crooked and cocky, folding lines into the corner of his eyes.

They leave Catsby on his roof to brood and head back into the living room. She should tell him that the place is great, but she can’t really swing it. Not with the stairs and the laundry and the amount of trip hazards. But as the words begin to form on her tongue, they morph and suddenly she’s asking, “When can I move in?”

He blinks at her in surprise. “Did you want to discuss rent first?”

“Oh,” she laughs awkwardly, “You’re right.”

“Split in half, it would be about 350 a month. Water is included but we have to pay utilities, which is typically only about 80 bucks a month. Less during the fall because windows can stay open.”

The rent and utilities together are still less than half of the rent she’s paying now, which is more than ideal. “Sounds good to me.”

“Did you have any concerns about the place? I try to keep it clean and would prefer you to do the same. If you have a ton of stuff, maybe think about putting some in storage.”

“Not necessary,” she tells him, “I purged a lot of stuff recently. You know, attachment to the material is weakness. Or that’s what my friend told me, anyway. He’s in the peace corps, so he’s very into the ‘those who have little, have the most’ mantra.”

“How very enlightened of him,” Bellamy snorts.

Clarke fiddles with the spice rack next to the stove, browsing through the selection. “You cook?”

“When I can make it to the grocery to grab things,” he responds, coming to lean against the breakfast bar. “What about you?”

“Unless you like grilled cheese, then no.”

“Wow, how old are you?”

She sticks her tongue out at him. “Twenty-five, thank you. On the downward slope to thirty.

He sighs. “I’ve got you beat. I’m two years away.”

“You poor soul.”

“I’m waiting for the day I find a gray hair.”

An idea strikes her. “What else should I know about you?” she asks. “We can play twenty questions. Just to make sure we’d, you know, get along. And so I can decide whether you’re going to kill me or not.”

“Please, if one of us was a murderer, it’d be you. That would explain why Catsby likes you.”

They end up on the couch, her feet tucked tightly underneath her and his propped up on his coffee table. His arm is tossed over the couch, giving her a somewhat distracting view of his toned forearm, and sliver of skin peaking out near his hip. She learns quickly that he is, in fact, a nerd. He loves school. Loves history, particularly the rise of the Roman and Greek empires. He has a younger sister, Octavia, who he named. His favorite movie changes from day to day, but if he had to pick, he’d pick _300._

“Of course.”

“It was ahead of its time!”

She tells him she’s an artist. She’s allergic to nuts. She enjoys documentaries and listening to NPR, which earns her a, “Now, who’s pretentious?”  She tells him she’s interested in going back to school one day, but she isn’t sure for what. They have a lengthy discussion on current politics and discover they share the same feelings on the state of their county. It’s nice, she thinks, being able to talk to him like a normal person for once. To tell him her goals, though she might never achieve them. To talk about art and movies, though one day she won’t be able to see well enough to do any of it.

In the hour they spend talking, she thinks about telling him. Ripping it of like a band-aid. _I really like chocolate and painting landscapes, but also, I’m going blind._ The words can’t seem to leave her. Because she likes the way he looks at her. The way he talks to her like she’s just a normal human being and not a fragile being who needs pity and to be handled with care.

So when he asks, “Anything else I should know?”, she shakes her head. He hands her a key and tells her she can move in whenever she’s ready, which just so happens to be tomorrow.

“You aren’t going to rob me blind, are you?” he asks.

Her steps falter at the word, but she plays it off as a slight trip. She opens the front door with a mischievous smile. “No promises.”


	2. diamonds in the sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh my god, they were roommates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was originally a one-shot, so i apologize if it seems disjointed at all. 
> 
> again, shout out to P, the most wonderful human (and editor) I know.

Her landlord takes the news of her departure well, all things considered. Maybe because he gets to keep her security deposit, a heavy chunk of change, and her lease was up in a month, anyway. When she showed up in his office, he just shrugged and yelled after her to make sure it was clean and free of her belongings by the end of the month.

She had, admittedly, been preparing for this moment for weeks despite only having looked casually for a few days prior to finding Bellamy’s Craigslist ad. Most of her stuff had been sold or given away. Some of it was going to stay behind – she knows the new tenant will appreciate the floral shower curtain, the nice set of curtains in the living room, the cookware she _never_ used, and her bedroom suit which is almost brand new. It seems silly, she knows, to give it all away, but to her it’s trivial. Holding on to stuff she doesn’t need, growing attached to things, none of it really matters and will becomes a bigger pain in the ass than they’re worth.

 It doesn’t take long to pack what’s left. A few medium totes of clothes, a duffel bag with her art supplies. A few paintings, even fewer pictures of her and her friends. The Uber driver doesn’t seem particularly happy when he picks her up in the parking lot, having to get out and assist her in reluctant chivalry, which apparently is only good for pick-ups, because when they arrive at her new home, he sits in the car while she pulls everything from the trunk, sweating profusely in the late-August heat while he sits in his air conditioned Taurus. Fucking dick.   

 As soon as she slams the trunk shut, he speeds off, leaving her huffing for air and wiping sweat from her brow. She sits on one of the totes and pulls out her phone, texting her new roommate in supplication.

  **Clarke [3:47pm]  
**_Pls tell me ur home._

 **B** **ellamy [3:47pm]**  
_Just got home. You here?  
_ _I’m starting to reevaluate letting you move in. You text like a teenager._

 **Clarke [3:48pm]**  
_If doth wishes to be a gentleman, would thou help me with these boxes?  
_ _Better?_

 She doesn’t get a response, but he does come downstairs to help her. She manages to get everything to the front door before he appears, glasses sliding down his nose and hair a mess, something she’s almost certain he does intentionally to create the ‘intellectual’ look. It works for him.

 “This is it?” he asks, picking up the two totes of clothes easily. She adjusts the bag over her shoulder and gathers the paintings from their lean on the doorframe.

 “I told you—”

 “Those who have little, have much,” he interrupts her with a grin, “Right, right.”

 When they reach the top of the Worst Stairs to Ever Exist™, she drops the bag from her shoulder and bends over, rubbing at the stitch that’s developed in her side and tries to get her eyes to focus. “Does that ever get easier?”

 His breath is hardly uneven, which is totally unfair. He just smirks, something she will learn is its own trademark. “You’ll be taking two at a time before you know it!”

 “Doubtful.”  

 She’s finished unpacking within an hour, her clothes neatly folded into drawers, her few sweaters hung on the cheap rail hung from the window to the adjacent wall. Bellamy had offered to switch her rooms, since his side is the one with the closet, but she waved him off.

 “Are you making assumptions based on gender that I have more stuff to hang than you do?”

 “What? No, of course, I wasn’t…I –”

 “Relax. I’m kidding.” He leaves her with a frustrated sigh that she thinks might be almost a laugh.

 When she opens the window to her room, she spots Catsby near the same spot he had been the day before. She calls out to him again and just the same, he meows obnoxiously but comes to her, anyway.

 “Guess we’re roommates now, huh?” she tells him as he nuzzles into her hand.

 Bellamy cooks dinner, a strange green pasta dish that he calls ‘pesto sacchettini’ which she promptly renames into ‘pesto sack’.

 “This sack is so good,” she tells him, shoving a noodle in her mouth.

 He chokes on his own mouthful before glaring at her. “I had no idea you were such a comedian.”

 “Well, you don’t really know much about me, now do you?”

 “I can already tell you’re going to be a pain in the ass.”

 She smiles toothily. “You have no idea. But no take-backs. All my stuff is put away.”

 They watch a documentary on Netflix, one that she knows he’s probably watched at least six times if the way he mumbles the introduction under his breath is any indication. She doesn’t mind. She likes that he interrupts her concentration to go into detail about something she hadn’t really understood initially, or rather, hadn’t been paying much attention to.

 “So like, you’re a real history nerd, then?” she asks once he finishes his tangent about Henry A. Wallace and the great tragedy of the 1944 Democratic National Convention.

 “What do you mean?’

 “I mean you don’t just know these things or talk about them to sound pretentious or smarter than everyone else in the room. You genuinely just have fun talking about it.”

 “Oh.” She thinks she see’s his cheeks grow pink, but it may just be a trick of the light. “Well, yeah. Wouldn’t be in school for it if I wasn’t having fun.”

 “And you want to teach it?”

 “Yeah. I’d prefer a University level, but I’ve considered High School.”

 She snorts. “You might want to stick with College. High School girls would be all over you.”

 “Bold of you to assume the boys wouldn’t be, too.”

 “You’re right. How un-progressive of me.” She pauses, finishing the last bite of pasta. “You’d be good at it either way, I think.”

 “Really?”

 “I mean, I only have this two-episode documentary to go off of here, but you explain things clearly and you sound way less monotone than most history teachers I’ve encountered.”

 “Were any of them under sixty?”

 “I don’t think so.”

 “That explains it.” The television flashes to a montage of planes and bombs as it drones on about World War II. “What about you though? What did you go to school for? I never did ask.”

 “Liberal Arts.”

 He laughs, a full-belly cackle. “That explains so much!”

 She points her fork at him, eyes narrowed. “Say one bad word about my degree and I will have Catsby maul you in your sleep.”

 “Your own personal murder minion. It’s like Hades and Cerberus.”

 “Exactly. And I’ll have you know, I’m very well-versed in the Greek Myths thanks to that degree.”

 He holds his hands up in surrender. “I wasn’t saying there was something wrong with your degree. Just explains the whole minimalist artist thing you got going for you.”

 “Artist thing?”

 “You’re wearing overalls stained in paint and you have more paintings than shoes or clothes. I’m assuming they’re yours?”  

 “Yeah.”

 “I like the one of the sunrise. Where did you paint it?”

 “Virginia Beach. I lived there with my Dad for a while. Most of school, actually.” A pang shoots through her chest at the mention of her dad, but she shakes it off. Now isn’t the time to get into it.

 Their conversation stalls and starts back up all throughout the series. By the time they’re on episode five, she’s starting to doze on the couch and Bellamy’s on his laptop, typing furiously like an idea is pouring from his fingers and slipping through the cracks.

 A strange calm settles over her as she drifts off to the voice of Oliver Stone and Bellamy’s rapid typing and she realizes that this is the most comfort she’s felt in years.

 She can’t decide if that’s a good or bad sign.  

* * *

 

 They fall into easy routines. Bellamy is at school most of the time, having to juggle class, teaching, office hours, and dissertation discussion. On days when her vision isn’t a clusterfuck, she holes up in her room and paints. She paints the trees outside her window. She paints Catsby as he sits on her bed – to Bellamy’s dismay, he’s attached to her quickly, even curling up in her lap when they sit on the couch to watch Netflix and letting her pet him until he falls asleep. She even ventures outside to the park while it’s still warm enough, sketching power walkers and families, enjoying the sight of fall at it’s finest.

 She learns the best routes on the train, how to get downtown, to the gallery. To the grocery, which she hates immediately, but it’s only fair considering Bellamy does all the cooking. Even on nights where he doesn’t get home until long after she’s fallen asleep in her room, he cooks and makes sure to leave leftovers in the fridge for her to eat the next day.

 When she’s feeling less than inspired, she’ll wander into the living room and pull one of Bellamy’s books from the shelf and reads. When she’d asked for recommendations, he’d shrugged and said, “All of them.” Entirely unhelpful, but also somewhat of a challenge. So, she decides to start at the front and work her way up. A small voice in her head tells her she won’t make it all the way through, tells her to be realistic. She drowns it out, pulling out Bellamy’s copy of “What’s Going On” and throwing it on the old record player.

 As much shit as she gives him for being such a hipster, she finds herself enjoying the benefits of living with one.

 Getting through his books is a challenge for a couple of different reasons. The first being that he writes all over them, maiming the corners and margins of nearly every page with illegible scrawl that takes her too long to decode. Passages are highlighted in bright yellow, which in theory, should make them easier to read but only serves to make her go a little cross eyed. She tells him as much on days he comes home from class and flops down on the couch with her, earning a hiss from Catsby, and a rant about book care from her before they get into a discussion about what she’s read.

 He’s incredibly smart. Passionate about certain topics, dispassionate about others. When they don’t agree, he doesn’t try to argue with her even though she pushes for it. She enjoys a good argument now and then, but Bellamy just smiles and when he’s tired of talking about it, he’ll say, “Agree to disagree.”

 They bicker about trivial things. He gets frustrated when she leaves her hair stuck to the shower wall. She bangs on the accordion door when he snores too loud. He shames her for her taste in coffee. “Folgers is not for plebs!” she argues. But he refuses to drink it and continues buying his fancy stuff from the café on campus. On a night she does make him a grilled cheese, he has the audacity to tell her she’s doing it wrong and they fight about it for almost an hour, even after the grilled cheeses are consumed and they’re a half bottle of wine gone.

 Normal stuff. She likes the normal stuff.

* * *

Wells sends her a postcard from Bangladesh in late September, mostly as an indicator that he’s still doing well despite being eleven months in to his sabbatical. She hadn’t really expected him to last this long, to be honest, a privileged kid from the same Upper East Side of New York as her. She may have turned into a more minimalist lifestyle, but she’s partial to running water and access to the finer parts of society.

She decides to write him back, one page turning into five as she fills him in on the newest developments in her life. At the end, mostly for her own benefit, she includes a pros and cons list to sum up the best and worst parts of her living arrangements.

**Pro’s of Living with Bellamy:**

  1. He’s a neat freak – everything is always so _clean!_
  2. He cooks and it’s delicious. (She hasn’t been this well-fed since before college and it’s starting to show in the waistband of her jeans, but she’s not even that mad about it.)
  3. He has decent taste in music (but she won’t tell him that because his ego is already big enough.)
  4. He’s interesting. Fun to talk to.



**Con’s of Living with Bellamy:**

  1. She has to do the grocery shopping – this probably doesn’t count because she’d have to do it for herself, regardless.
  2. They have to share a bathroom.
  3. He’s really good looking. Like really good looking. And smart. This is dangerous. (She totally has it handled, though.)
  4. He doesn’t know she’s going blind. (But like, it’s not really that important. At least not yet. She’ll tell him. Eventually.)



 All and all, the cons seem like a wash to her.

 (By the time she’s finished, licking and stamping the envelope, her neck is sore enough to bring tears to her eyes. She hadn’t realized how hunched over she had been, how close she had to put her face to the paper to make out the words.)  

 

* * *

 

 It’s different for everyone. That’s what the ophthalmologist told her during her last visit. She’s due every six months for monitoring. Since her diagnosis almost a year ago, not much has changed. Her night vision is worse and there are some days she can hardly focus, like trying to adjust a microscope with no luck. She was given a prescription for glasses, one she filled but keeps tucked away in her sock drawer because she doesn’t _really_ need them.

The worst thing about it all is that from the research she’s done, it really does seem like it’s different for everyone. One girl described her experience as quick – diagnosed and blind a year later. Another says she’s had vision in her left eye, like looking through a key hole, for nearly ten years. A boy, diagnosed at eight, had nearly twenty years of vision – he played sports, drove a car, got a job. Until one day it’s like his vision tunneled completely.

There’s no consistency, no real finality to any of it.

Clarke thinks that’s the worst thing of all. Maybe if she knew when things would happen, how quick, then she could accept it and move on. But instead, she ignores it. Right now, she’s fine. Right now, people don’t need to know. She’ll cross that bridge when she gets to it. And she chooses to believe she’s still a long way down the road.

 

* * *

 

 

When Thanksgiving break rolls around, things change quietly.

 It’s the first time they’re in the same space together for more than a few hours at a time, leaving a lot more room for discussion and conversation outside of books, art, and school. She hadn’t even realized how shallow their conversations had been up until now, thinking they had been getting to know each other quite well. Turns out, there is still a lot she doesn’t know about Bellamy Blake and she feels bad that she hadn’t even thought to ask.

She’s sitting on her bed the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, attempting to work on her next big project but failing miserably. Her motivation has been lacking lately, and she tries to chalk it up to being burnt out rather than the loss of her ability to focus for more than few minutes at a time. There’s an old Beatles Record, _Revolver_ ,  echoing through the apartment, cranked as loud as possible so she can hear it from the living room.

She hadn’t heard him come in, his voice startling her from her already fragile conversation. When she looks up, he’s storming past her room into his own, slamming his door shut. Thus far, privacy hasn’t been much of an issue for them, but the accordion door finally does him. She can hear everything he’s saying, or rather, hissing into, what she presumes to be, his phone.

 “I see you twice a year, O!” A pause. “I understand that, but don’t you think I like seeing you?” Another pause, and she realizes it must be his sister on the other end. “No, I can’t come to California.” Clarke tries to stop listening. “Whatever. I guess I’ll just see you when I see you, huh?”

 She jumps, her pencil flying from her fingers when there’s a loud crack on the floor, like he threw his phone into the old hardwood in his frustration. Silence follows, until she hears the familiar squeak of his window and the low patter of steps on the roof. She hesitates for a moment, afraid she might be overstepping their boundaries or butting into something personal. But her curiosity wins out and she tosses her sketchpad on the desk and slides open her own window, sticking her head out to check. He’s sitting in the middle, cigarette dangling between his lips, unlit.

 “Hey,” she greets warily. “You okay?”

 He turns towards her, but she can’t make out the expression on his face. Too fucking dark. She continues apologetically, “I overheard you. Your sister?”

 Part of her thinks he’ll tell her to mind her own business and piss off. If she were in his shoes, she probably would. But instead he sighs. “Yeah. She’s not coming in for Thanksgiving.”

 It strikes her, then, that they hadn’t even discussed Thanksgiving. Probably both assuming the other had plans because they don’t know any better. She dithers in the windowsill, gripping the frame and bouncing on her toes as she tries to decide what to do. He seems like he wants to be alone, but at the time, he seems lonely.

 She decides. “Mind if I join you?”

 “Go ahead.”

 She climbs out clumsily, crawling onto the roof on all fours because standing seems like a terrible idea. She can’t see all that well, the tree next door blocking any light from the street that could be helpful. But she tries to play it off, and listens for the sound of his breathing to indicate when to stop. She settles in next to him.

 “I didn’t know you smoked.”

 “Only when I’m stressed.”

 “You’re a Grad student. Aren’t you like, perpetually stressed?”

 “I may smoke on occasion,” he amends.

 “Wanna talk about it?”

 There’s a long, uncomfortable pause but she waits it out. She gets the feeling that he doesn’t really share much about himself to other people. She can relate. And if he doesn’t want to talk about it, she doesn’t mind sitting in silence. Sometimes just having someone next to you is enough.

 “I told you I have sister,” he starts, pulling the cigarette from his lips.

 “Octavia.”

 “Yeah. I don’t see her much these days. Usually on holidays. She called to tell me she wasn’t coming.” He scoffs, twirling the cigarette between his fingers. “I would understand if she had a good reason. But you know what she said? She said she had a concert on Friday and didn’t want to pay for a ticket home for two days.”

 “Do you think she actually has a concert or just didn’t want to come home?”

 He shrugs. “I don’t really know. I mean, our relationship is…complicated. But I don’t know why this year she would decide she didn’t want to see me.”

 “What happened? To make it complicated, I mean?” She adds quickly, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

 She doesn’t really expect him to answer, or if anything, give her some vague explanation before changing to topic altogether. But she’s learning quickly that he’s full of surprises.

 “I pretty much raised her. When mom was alive, she wasn’t around much. She worked a lot. I was six years older, so I became this like, surrogate father for her since mine was never in the picture, and O’s took off when she was two. Growing up, it was easy to balance my role as a brother and parental figure. I could take care of her, but also enable things at the same time.” He rests his arms on his knees, staring straight ahead as though talking to the trees. His words are slower when he speaks again. “But when mom died, I had to become the sole parent to an angry teenager. I was eighteen and clueless on how to raise a twelve-year-old alone.”

 “We struggled for a while. I got my degree online while working two jobs to support her. It was hard. She was really, really angry about mom. About her dad. About life. By the time she turned eighteen, she would hardly speak to me and one day, she left. Ran off to California with her boyfriend.”

 “I’m sorry,” Clarke says quietly. “That must’ve been hard.”

 “My sister, my responsibility,” he shifts, scuffing his boot along the roof. “That’s what my mom told me right before she died.”

 “Seems like an unfair thing to put on the shoulders of an eighteen year old.” She says it before she can stop herself, tensing when she realizes exactly what she’s insinuating.

 “Maybe. But I did my best. Octavia just doesn’t see it that way.” He lifts the cigarette to his lips again and fishes a lighter from his jean pocket. “Do you care?”

 She shakes her head and listens as the lighter flicks on. He takes a long drag, blowing the smoke away from her.

 “I thought maybe as time passed, she’d learn to forgive me for the mistakes I made. But it seems like she gets more resentful. I didn’t ask to be her parent. I wish I could have just been her brother.”

 “It’s not your fault,” she reassures. She may not know all the details of their lives growing up, but she knows Bellamy would have done his best. And at the end of the day, it wasn’t fair for him to have that kind of pressure at such a young age.

 “I tell myself that all the time,” he laughs, “Now, I just need to believe it.”

Clarke lays back on the roof while he finishes his cigarette. The sky is empty. Just an abyss of darkness that she knows only she sees. She closes her eyes, instead imagining what it might look like. She hears Bellamy shift and lay down next to her.

 “I meant to ask,” he says finally, his voice made slightly lower by the tobacco, “What are your plans for Thanksgiving? I mean, are you going to see family or staying here?”

 Her hands clam up where they lay on her stomach. She thinks about blowing off the question, vaguely mentioning her mom being busy with work or something. But he just opened himself up to her willingly and while she may not be able to open herself up completely to him, she can offer him a little.

 “I’ll be here,” she starts. “My dad passed away a few years ago and my Mom is somewhere in Chicago being a Senator’s wife.”

 “You don’t have a relationship with her?”

 “Not really. She and my dad had a pretty messy divorce when I was fifteen. She cheated on him and left him for the Senator. She left me behind, too. And when Dad died, she couldn’t even come to the funeral. Up until then I had wanted to make things right with her but then I realized she really didn’t care.”

 She could pay for college. Help Clarke pay her bills. But never once, did she ever try to show that she cared. That she wanted to be the mother.

 “I’m sorry.” He says finally. “Losing a parent sucks.”

 “Yeah, it does.”

 “But selfishly, I’m glad you’ll be here. Means I don’t have to order Thanksgiving take-out for one again this year.”

 She laughs softly. “Yeah, I’d hate for you to have to humiliate yourself like that again.”

 She’s not sure how long they lay there, long enough for her to begin to drift listening to the passing cars and steady stream of Bellamy’s breathing. His voice is low when finally says, “The stars look amazing tonight.”

 She’s happy that it’s dark. That she can’t see the slight quiver of her lip. She had never really been able to appreciate stars. Even when she was younger, seeing at night was difficult, only growing progressively worse until they disappeared altogether.  She thinks that if there were a moment to confess, a moment to finally say out loud the future she’s facing, this would be it. Maybe things wouldn’t change. Maybe they’d continue to lay here and tomorrow they’d wake up, drink coffee, and argue over the New York Times crossword puzzle.

 It’s too heavy. She’s not ready. She’s just not.

 So instead she says, “Describe them.”

 “What?”

 “Describe them,” she repeats. “My eyes are closed. What do they look like?”

 She thinks he’s going to just tell her to stop being weird and open her eyes, but the roof shifts quietly underneath him as he turns. The breath on her cheek tells her he’s facing her now, and she has to fight the impulse to reach over and run her fingers along his cheek.

 He thinks about it for a long time, “Imagine having a blanket over your head. Like your just shrouded in complete darkness. And someone comes in and pokes a bunch of holes in it.”

 She can’t help it, she bursts out laughing. “That’s a terrible description.”

 “But you pictured it, right?”

 “Come on, you can do better than that. I’ve seen the Pablo Neruda hidden on your shelf.”

 “Fine.” He huffs. He takes his time again, before finally, he whispers. “They’re beautiful. Imagine a diamond in the palm of your hand.”

 “Big or small?”

 “Huge.” He clarifies. “Now, imagine crushing it into a million pieces, turning it into dust, and sprinkling it across the night sky.”

 Something lodges in her throat. “Yeah? Sounds beautiful.”

 “It is.”

 “See?” she smiles sadly, “I knew you could do better. Imagery is important you know.”

 “I guess I should work on it then, huh?”

 She opens her eyes, pretending like she can see the crushed diamonds sparkling above her. “Yeah. Never know when it’ll come in handy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to extend my deepest gratitude to everyone who has taken the time to send kind words and positive thoughts. I really appreciate the positive feedback because I am, admittedly, an anxious mess posting this. So thank you <3


	3. birds of a feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some good blarke quality time and a lot of disjointed emotions with some humor sprinkled in.

Thanksgiving is a quiet affair, just a load of Thai take-out and the entire first season of _The Punisher._ She somehow managed to convince Bellamy to watch something fictional, rather than one of the thousand documentaries she's certain he's already seen. They both get into it, spending an unhealthy amount of time in front of the television and sacrificing good hygiene all in the name of Frank Castle.

“I would die for him,” she decides by episode four, “He deserves a hug.”

“As far as murderers go, I support him.” Bellamy agrees, shifting underneath the shared blanket draped over their laps. Catsby is curled up between them, purring softly as she strokes him idly.

“He murders for the greater good, at least.”

There’s a pause, before they both grin thinking of their favorite fictional cop.  “Cool motive, still murder!”

The holiday is over too quickly, Monday effectively bursting their quiet bubble. He disappears back to school, she continues to paint and work at the gallery. Lincoln, the owner, had offered her a part-time job working reception while his usual is out on maternity leave. She suspects there’s more to it than that – back when she was first diagnosed, he was the first person she told on account of him being the first to see her that week in the middle of her depressive episode. He’s very much aware of her situation and the fears that come with it and though she was reluctant to take the job, clearly a gift of pity, staying in the apartment with only Catsby to talk to during the day was becoming quite unbearable.

She and Bellamy mostly hang out late at night while he smokes on the roof, more than usual with finals coming up. The stress of both his own and the one he has to write for his Intro class making him smoke like a chimney. In the time they spend outside, he usually smokes three or four before they head to bed and while she has made a point to mention that it is absolutely _terrible_ for his health, she actually enjoys the time they spend doing it.

He describes the night sky to her any time he gets the chance, having turned it into a little game. Some descriptions are better than others, some make her laugh. She’ll always tell him to keep working on it because she likes hearing him try. Then they’ll lay in silence. Sometimes one of them will turn on music and they’ll just listen. Other times they’ll chat idly about anything that comes to mind. _Why do Facebook ads know exactly what you were thinking only moments ago? Aesthetically, is there a difference between black and navy blue? Thoughts on the afterlife? If you could meet one person, living or dead, who would it be?_

They’re friends, she realizes, more than roommates. Aside from the few quarrels over mismatched socks, hair in the drain, or the fact that he squeezes toothpaste from the middle instead of pushing from the top, they have hardly had issues. Even privacy doesn’t seem to be as big a deal as it should be for two singles in their mid-twenties. The worst sounds are Bellamy’s snoring and occasional conversation with Miller, whom he likes putting on speakerphone for some ungodly reason.

Soon enough, he crosses the boundary between their rooms. She’s adding a few extra touches to her newest painting when the accordion door snaps open. Bellamy stands in front of her with his fists in the air, one hand wrapped around a bottle of White Zinfandel.

“Finals are over!” he shouts triumphantly, entering her space with a dramatic flop onto her bed, her duvet huffing at the sudden weight.

“So you’ve moved on from tobacco to fancy suburban mom wine?” she teases, sitting her paint brush on her dresser before joining him.

They finish the bottle quickly, forgoing glasses because _the kitchen is just too far away, Clarke,_ and by midnight, are both giggling into her pillows as they tell embarrassing stories. He busted his lip chasing his sister around a coffee table. She accidentally got a fish hook caught in her eyebrow the _one_ time she tried fishing. He broke his wrist at the roller rink by tripping over an extension cord.

“I tried out for track my Junior year of high school and ended up chipping a tooth after tripping over one of the hurdles.” Bellamy laughs and she smacks him with her pillow. “Shut up! I wanted to impress this girl, Lexa. She was the Captain of the field hockey team and was into athletic girls.”

“Was she impressed? I mean, it sounds like you were _so_ graceful.” He snorts again and she smacks him once more, a feather puffing out of the pillow as if wanting to add to the comedic value.

“We dated for like two years after that,” she tells him proudly. Lexa had been her first serious relationship and first girlfriend. Coming out to her Dad was terrifying, but he was nothing but supportive of her relationship.  She realizes it’s the first time she’s talked about her sexuality with him and feels a sudden wave of anxiety wash over her. “I’m Bi, by the way. Uh, sorry if that’s weird?”

It’s stupid to apologize, she knows. She’s been comfortable with her sexuality for almost ten years now. She’s out to all her friends. And yet there’s still something frightening about coming out to someone new, this ingrained apprehension that they won’t accept you.

But of course, it’s Bellamy. He just grins at her, fiddling with one of the pencils she had left laying on her nightstand. “It’s cool. I’m pan. Probably.”

Her first thought should not be an immediate, and impulsive need to jump his bones. But he’s laying in front of her, revealing his own sexuality with ease while also looking like a god-damn Calvin Klein model. She hates this (she loves it). She chooses to blame the alcohol.

“Probably?”

“I don’t think I’m attracted to gender exclusively. It honestly doesn’t matter to me so much as who the person is, you know?”

Honestly, fuck him. Just when she thought he couldn’t get more attractive. Thankfully, he saves her from embarrassing herself by going on one of his _history tangents,_ this time about sexuality and ancient Greece, which she admittedly finds fascinating but she’s drunk and tired and starts to doze off as soon as he really gets into it.

He manages to stumble back to his own bed, but doesn’t bother sliding the door shut. And when she wakes up, spotting him buried underneath is pile of pillows, she smiles.

It’s strange, but she hadn’t really realized how much she missed the companionship. She’s grateful for it.

 

* * *

 

 An email comes just days later, a reminder in more ways than one. Reminding her that she has a checkup scheduled for January 31st at nine a.m. Reminding her that even as she settles into normalcy, as she reads Bellamy’s books and laughs herself to sleep with him, as she works and paints and walks, that it’s not fated to last.

Her life is going to change, inevitably. It is a part of her, it is her, and the longer she ignores it, the worse off she’s going to be.

Yet, she files the email away after making a note in her phone and tosses it to the side as Bellamy yells for her to hurry up – he’s taking her to one of his fancy coffee shops to prove that Folgers is _not_ an acceptable way to live. They walk and talk, him mostly about school and life as she takes in her surroundings, trying to push away the negative thoughts. Not today, she tells herself.

She orders a cappuccino while Bellamy gets an Americana, to which she rolls her eyes and says, “Intellectuals.”

They spend the morning discussing her latest read, _The Stranger._ It’s her first ever reading of Camus. Bellamy, it turns out, isn’t much of a fan but can appreciate what he did for the literary culture and existentialism. In the hour they spend drinking coffee and talking about the complete isolation of oneself thanks to one philosophical author, she almost tells him.

She almost tells him that one of these days she won’t be able to read Camus or his notes in the books. She won’t be able to look at the guy sitting behind her when Bellamy wants to showcase the interesting mustache that stretches nearly past the mans ears. She won’t be able to read the menu unless it’s made of hardened bumps that she can feel.

She sips her coffee instead, drowning the words in espresso.

Maybe tomorrow, she decides. She just wants another good day.

* * *

 

 Wells sends her a Christmas post-card and four pages of messily written stories. He tells her about the village he’s been working in building more stable structures for families to live in. He tells her of _Dipsikh_ , a young girl who he has become fondly attached to because of her sense of humor and passion for dance. He’s doing well for himself, but he misses her and the perks that American society has to offer.

 He uses his stories as buffer before proceeding to lecture her on a) all the reasons she shouldn’t have rashly decided to move in with a stranger using statistics she’s certain he made up and b) he cannot believe how _fucking stubborn_ she is when it comes to her own well-being.

 She feels an unfamiliar surge of anger when she reads:

  _I understand that you do not have a responsibility to disclose something personal to anyone and that it is need to know. But don’t you think you’re being a little unfair to yourself? Ignoring it doesn’t mean it’s going to go away. Remember when you first got diagnosed, you said, “This is part of me now.” And I know I’m not there, so I don’t really know what’s going on, but it seems like you haven’t really accepted that. That you’re happy living in this bubble and fixated on painting and this new friendship with Bellamy so that you don’t have to think about it._

She nearly crumples the letter up, tears burning behind her eyes because she _hates_ being psychoanalyzed. By the time she reaches the end, her hand is shaking, but leave it to Wells to try to leave on an overly positive note.

_Don’t be ashamed, Clarke. Don’t hide. You are still you, even if you can’t see as well. And if this Bellamy guy is as great as you wrote him out to be, he’ll tell you the same thing. And please, for the love of God, go to your doctor’s appointments._

Normally, she would write him back immediately. Would go line by line and try to respond to each section. But this time, she shoves the letter into her drawer.

 Because fuck Wells. He thinks he can pull out his fancy Psychology degree from thousands of miles away and use it on her? Tell her how she feels?

 He has no fucking idea.

* * *

 

Octavia doesn’t come for Christmas, either.

She calls just two days prior to tell her brother that something big with work came up, and she would be working through the holidays. Bellamy doesn’t yell this time, just hangs up the phone with a sigh. “I’ve done what I can do. She’ll either come around or she won’t.”

This time they cook, or rather, Bellamy cooks while she sits on the counter and pretends to be helpful. He makes a roast with scalloped potatoes and carrots, which might possibly be the best thing she’s ever tasted. They eat in the living room, this time watching _A Series of Unfortunate Events_ in their pajamas as a light snow begins.

 As far as holidays goes, it’s one of the better ones in recent memory.

When Clarke wakes the next morning, her neck is sore, and she’s being pinned to the couch by something heavy across her waist. She realizes her pillow is Bellamy’s leg and that weight is his arm, wrapped around her like a blanket. She tries to ignore the sweltering heat of her skin where his palm bleeds through her thin shirt. He’s still upright, at least, his neck crooked at an uncomfortable angle against the back cushions.

She guarantees it’ll hurt.

She slides from underneath his arm and he stirs briefly at the movement, before slumping further into the couch. She decides to make him coffee with his Christmas present – she hadn’t known what to get him and figured he would be uncomfortable if it were something extravagant – a French press she found last minute shopping the other day.  It’s complicated and she has to read the directions four times before she makes a successful cup of coffee. 

She returns to the couch with a gentle nudge to his shoulder. His eyes blink open and he stares at her like he couldn’t tell her what his own name is for a moment, until he begins to sit up.

“Fuck,” he groans, a hand gripping at his neck. “I’m too old for this.”

“Having all those pillows on your bed has made you weak,” she teases, before handing him the mug. “Here, you look like you need it.”

“Even the worst torture couldn’t convince me to drink Folgers.”

“Ah yes, only the best for the King,” she rolls her eyes, pushing the mug at him again, “It’s not Folgers. Just try it.”

To her surprise, he takes the coffee without further argument and sips.

“I added the three sugars like you did at the coffee shop,” she says nervously, “But I’m not sure exactly how to prep fancy coffee.”

“No,” he sips again, smacking his lips with a satisfactory grin, “It’s perfect. Where did you get it?”

“It’s your Christmas present.” She gestures for him to come to the kitchen and he stands with another dramatic groan as his knees crack. “That is, if you don’t break a hip trying to get up, old man.”

She waves her hands at the French press a la _Price is Right_. “You are the proud new owner of a fancy coffee maker.”

 He sits his mug down and reaches for the object, examining it with bright, wide eyes. “Shit, Clarke.”

 “Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal.”

 “Yours is in my room.” He says before taking off down the hallway.

 She hadn’t really expected him to get her anything. His present was for both of them, really. He was spending far too much money on coffee shops and she was just making sure the bills didn’t suffer because of his fancy caffeine addiction. That’s it.

 He returns with a gift bag, tufts of tissue paper sticking out the top. He hands it to her with flush cheeks and she thinks briefly how cute he looks like this; blushing, wild hair, and boyish grin.

  _Fuck, Griffin, stop it!_

She opens the bag to find four tubes of oil paints, colors she had run out of a couple months back and hadn’t been able to justify spending money on. Far more expensive than the thirty dollar French press. Something lodges in her chest.

 “Bell…”

 “I remember you throwing a tantrum when you ran out of cadmium yellow, so I figured…”

 “I did _not_ throw a tantrum!”

 Bellamy leans against the counter and sips his coffee smugly, before clearing his throat. “How am I ever going to get this sunset on Main right without fucking cadmium yellow! Bob Ross would be ashamed!”

 Despite herself, she laughs, because it’s almost word for word what she had said. She’s serious about her paint colors.

 “These are really expensive,” she murmurs, pulling out the dark sienna, “You didn’t have to.”

 He shrugs. “Merry Christmas.”

And while she considers herself to be fairly touch averse, thanks to her detached other, she wraps her arms around Bellamy without thinking. They snake around his waist and she presses and ear to his chest, hearing the quickening thump of his heart. She hears him sit the mug on the counter before he’s returning the hug, hands rubbing up and down her spine soothingly. It’s a surprisingly intimate hug for two recent strangers. Two new friends.

 But they stay like that for seconds that drag on to minutes. And everything feels okay.

 

* * *

 

 Raven calls her New Year’s Eve, half drunk and yelling into the phone. “Happy New Year!” The clock’s already struck midnight in her time zone, but the evening is only just rolling in for her.

 “Happy New Year, Reyes.” She’s laying out clothes on her bed, trying to figure out what to wear to the night’s festivities. Bellamy invited her to come with him to some party with his cohorts and it’s been far too long since she’s gone to any sort of social gathering that didn’t involve the gallery. She had been nervous to say yes, initially, but she’s grown curious about his friends and it beats sitting at home alone.

 “Real quick, which one of these should I wear?” She asks, snapping a picture of the shirts laid out on her bed and sending them.

 “Damn, Griffin,” Raven whistles. The screaming in the background quiets and she hears a gust of wind tangle into the phone. Raven must have stepped outside. “Who are we trying to impress tonight?”

 “No one. Bellamy invited me to a New Year’s Party.”

 “Of course.”

 “Of course what?”

 “Bellamy is who you want to impress.” There’s a shuffle and she hears Raven shout, “Fuck off!” to someone in the distance.

 “We’re friends, Raven.”

 “Sure. You’ve had a boner for him since you met him.” Drunk Raven, brazen as ever.

 “I have not!”

He's attractive, it's not her fault. 

 “Right,” Raven draws out the ‘i’, “Does he know about your thing yet?”

 “No.”

 “Clarke…”

 “What?” she grips the phone in her hand, flopping down onto her bed. “I don’t have to tell him anything, it’s no one’s business.”

 Wells’ letter flashes in her mind and she eyes the drawer it’s still crumpled in, heat pooling in her chest.

 “You know I want you to be happy, Griffin. But you’re hiding.” 

 “What do you mean?”

 Raven pauses, the static of the line filling and otherwise pregnant silence. “Like I know you said a long time ago that you’ve come to terms with the inevitable, or whatever. But you’ve been there for almost four months now and still haven’t told him. You never talk about it and when I bring it up, you get defensive.”

“I’m not defensive, I’m just tired of you and Wells trying to be some sort of god damned therapist.”

“See? Defensive.”

“Fuck you.”

“God, Clarke, I’m just worried about you, okay? Every time we talk, you tell me about the gallery or a book you’ve read or something about Bellamy. But you never talk about you anymore. How you’re feeling? How your vision is? Nothing.”

“There’s nothing to talk about!” she snaps, sitting up and running a hand through her hair. “I don’t have to report every fucking change or issue to you. I’ve actually been doing well. For the first time since I found out about this, I’ve been coping.”

“But you haven’t been coping!” she rarely hears Raven get pissed, but she can hear the frustration in her voice and it only makes her grow ten-fold. “You’re hiding! Behind art and Bellamy and whatever the fuck else you can hide behind.”  

The heat in her chest is burning now, like a hot knife being pressed into her skin, “I’m not living in a bubble, Raven. I’m very much aware of what’s going to happen. What _is_ happening. Excuse me if I want to enjoy the normalcy just a little while longer.”

“I understand that—”  
  
“No, you don’t! You have no idea what it’s like to have this cloud hanging over your head. This constant nagging thought that I could wake up tomorrow and see less or not at all because there’s no fucking pattern to this."

“You’re right, I have no idea what it’s like to face a disability head on,” Raven says finally, her voice even.

It’s not often Clarke feels like an asshole, but right now is certainly one of those moments. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“If anyone understands, it’s me. I know it’s not the same. A non-functioning leg and non-functioning eyes are two different beasts. But I know what it's like to be afraid and angry and everything else that comes with it. And I guess I just want to make sure that you understand that this isn’t defining who you are. It’s a disability, but it does not make you disabled. You can still be Clarke fucking Griffin.”

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until she feels something wet hit her knee. Truth is, she is afraid. And she’s angry. Sad. Emotions she can’t even put into words and it’s so hard to feel that, it physically hurts. It’s easier just to push it away.

“I’m just dealing with it the only way I know how,” she finally answers, her voice softer this time. “And yeah, okay, I like that Bellamy doesn’t know. I like being treated like a normal person without being pitied.”

“I don’t think he’d pity you.”

“He would,” she nearly laughs, “Maybe not intentionally, but he would. Everyone does. And I don’t want to be some fucking charity case or fall into this trap where I’m suddenly romanticized because of my disease. I refuse to be another piece of societies obsession with the disabled.” She can feel Raven’s glare through the phone and corrects herself. “With disabilities.”  

“I just don’t want you to get hurt. I love you, Griffin, and so does Wells. Though I’m sure he definitely tried to psychoanalyze you via paper didn’t he?”

By the time they finish talking, Clarke has settled on the silver top, a tasteful low-cut metallic that exposes more skin than will be comfortable for the brisk winter air. With Raven’s advice, she pairs it with a nice, skinny pair of dark wash jeans and the ankle boots she picked up at the mall a few weeks ago while out scavenging for Bellamy’s Christmas present. She adds a little bit of make-up, some eyeshadow from a cheap drug store palette and the single lipstick she owns.

It surprises her how good she feels when she looks in the mirror. How her first thought isn’t, _this is all pointless, anyway. I won’t be able to see it._ Instead, she just feels beautiful. Confident. She smiles at herself as she leaves. She won’t be confined by her future. Tonight, she’ll have fun.

She meets Bellamy in the living room and tries not to blush as he takes her in. He’s wearing a sweater, his favorite shade of midnight blue, and gray pants that are just a little tight around his thighs. Not that she’s staring or anything.

“You look great,” he tells her, handing her coat to her from the rack. “Your ankles might get cold, though.”

From anyone else, it might sound weird. But it’s a very Bellamy thing to say, she’s learned. “If I roll down my jeans, how will people know I’m bisexual?” She jokes.

He’s shrugging on his own coat. “Oh? I guess I should roll my pants up too then, huh?”

He holds the door open for her as they exit the building and it isn’t until they hit the sidewalk, that she begins to panic. She had thought it would be more well-lit than it is. But the streetlights are dim and it’s like a veil has been lifted in front of her eyes. She sucks in a breath, trying to keep herself calm because this is supposed a good night. A fun one. She can make it work.

“Hey,” Bellamy calls. He sounds paces ahead of her. “You okay?”

As long as she looks down, she can see what’s in front of her. She can do this. “Yeah, just colder than I thought. You were right about the ankles.”

She manages to keep up with him for almost two blocks before she slams her knee into the corner of a bench.

“Jesus, Clarke,” Bellamy grabs her arm to keep her stable as she let’s out a shaky breath. Blinking back tears, she stretches out her leg to test the damage. A small twinge shoots up her leg, but it isn’t anything terrible. Her pride is more bruised than anything. As Bellamy’s hand grips her arm, she comes up with an idea.

“Maybe you should help me walk,” she tries to joke, “I haven’t worn heels in forever.”

He tucks her hand under his arm, allowing her to grip his bicep and follow his lead. She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until he stops them in front of another house. “We’re here.”

The house is loud when they enter, a chorus of greetings and excited cheers. Bellamy greets everyone with a handshake and a hug, grinning widely as he introduces him to his friends. “This is Clarke.”

He doesn’t introduce her as anything else. Not his roommate. Not his friend. And she’s not sure what to make of it. They venture into the living room, which is fully decorated in lights and various new year’s items. Hats, headbands, glasses, horns. On the wall, Hozier is singing one of his catchy forest tunes from a projector. There are kids dancing off beat in the corner.

“Did you want something to drink?” he asks, when they finally settle near a bookshelf.

“Beer is fine,” she tells him. He disappears into the crowd, leaving her with one of the many people she’d been introduced to in the last five minutes.

“Miller,” the guys smiles at her, as if sensing her discomfort.

“Bellamy’s oldest friend,” she confirms. 

“A wealth of knowledge when it comes to every embarrassing moment he’s had.”

“You have my attention.”

By the time Bellamy returns with her beer in hand, she’s wiping tears away as Miller finishes the story of Bellamy trying out of the basketball team Freshman year of high school.

Bellamy groans. “I’d never played sports in my life and was trying to impress Bree Wilson. I was naïve, okay?!”

She eases into a conversation with the two of them about politics and trades Vine references happily with Miller, much to the confusion of Bellamy. Miller claps him on the shoulder. “You really gotta get with times, old man.”

She likes Bellamy’s friends, fitting in easily like a middle piece of the puzzle. She meets Harper and her boyfriend Monty, who are expecting their first kid in the spring. Murphy, who generously offers her a hit of his blunt as he leans against the open sliding glass door in the kitchen.

“Living with Bellamy, you probably need it,” he jokes. When she declines, he shrugs and takes another puff. “Tell me, does he have the days of the week on his underwear?”

His girlfriend, Emori, is the life of the party. She excitedly grabs Clarke’s hand and feeds her tequila, and all too quickly Clarke finds herself three sheets to the wind. By the time Bellamy tracks her down again, it’s ten ‘til midnight and his cheeks are flush with excitement and alcohol. She shivers when he puts his arm around her, his hand warm against the exposed skin of her back.

“You having fun?” he yells into her ear. The music is still playing loudly. A vaguely familiar song by Kesha blares, the heavy chorus of trumpets vibrating the windows.

“Yeah!” she yells back, leaning further into his touch. “Your friends are really nice!”

“I told them they had to make me sound as cool as possible.”

She grins at him. “You realize we live together, right? I know all your bad habits, Blake.”

“You want to step outside?

The change in sound is nice, her ears still ringing from the constant noise. His arm says around her waist even once they find spot on the patio. 

“How are the stars tonight?” she asks.

“Disappointing for some people, probably.” He says, “But still gold. Think less like diamonds, and more like glitter.”

She hums. “In what way?”

“An inky canopy sprinkled with flecks of glitter. Not overdone, just enough to make it sparkle.”

“You reread Marukami, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.” He laughs, chest vibrating underneath her arm. His arm is tracing idle patters on her back, leaving a trail of goosebumps beneath his fingers. A silence encompasses them, comfortable like the many they’ve shared on the roof. His touch is familiar and warm, and she finds herself leaning into it rather than away, her once prominent aversion to any sort of intimacy like this seemingly vanished.

She’s comfortable with Bellamy in a way she hasn’t been comfortable with anyone. Not in a long time. She tilts her head up to look at him, chin resting on his chest. He smiles down at her, his hand now ghosting along the nape of her neck. She isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol, the lighting, or both, but she thinks she sees his eyes flick to her lips and she wonders what they would feel like under hers. He’s sharp angles, but soft touches and she thinks his lips would be soft, too.

There’s a spark between them, a current drawing them closer inch by inch.

 _You’re hiding._ Her mind travels back to her earlier conversation with Raven and it’s like a bucket of cold water is dumped on her. She can’t do this. She can’t let herself hope, not when there’s so many things left in the dark. She’s being dishonest with him. Dishonest with herself. 

The house grows loud as people begin counting down from thirty. She pulls away, missing the loss of warmth immediately. “We should probably get inside. Don’t want to miss the ball drop.”

She turns, stopped by a hand around her wrist. “Clarke?” She can hear the hopeful confusion in his voice, realizes then that the attraction isn’t exclusive only to her, but that he feels it, too. This weird magnetic pull that’s been there since they met. She wants to give in. She’s so tempted. But one moment is not worth tainting thousands.

“Let’s go!” she pulls on his arm enthusiastically. He stumbles after her and the countdown is in it’s last ten seconds.

“Clarke,” Bellamy tries again as everyone chants around them. She grabs a horn from the side table and hands it to him, shoving on the glasses shaped into a one and a nine on her face.

“Three, two, one…” the chant continues. “Happy New Year!”

Around them, horns blow. Couples kiss. People cheer as the music starts again, dancing around the living room. On the couch, a pile of sleeping kids continue to dream.

She turns to face Bellamy, who has a strange look on his face, like he can’t quite figure something out. She hugs him quickly, murmuring a quick, “Happy New Year!” And then the weight becomes too much.

She escapes to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her before sliding down to the multi-colored tile floor. In another life, maybe things would be different.

Why couldn’t things be different?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope y'all know the support and response to this fic has brought tears to my eyes on more than one occasion and i am so grateful for the support not only in writing this, but this journey in general. i just really appreciate you and hope you continue to enjoy this emotional journey with me! 
> 
> (i didn't edit this like i should've, so if there are mistakes i will find them at some point lmao)
> 
> as usual, you can find me and my problematic ass on tumblr: octannibal-blake


	4. circe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi, welcome to e m o t i o n.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops, sorry for the delay. #depression amirite?  
> apologies in advance, this chapter is full of emotion and somewhat short, but i promise we can only go up from here.  
> and by up, i mean up and down and up and down. 
> 
> (this was not edited, so apologies for any mistakes. i just really wanted to update and i have no impulse control.)

For the first time in her adult life, Clarke makes a New Year’s resolution.

She buys a calendar, the pocket kind that old women like to carry in their purse. It has kittens on the front, a reflection of her sudden affinity for cats thanks to the everyday presence of Catsby. She also buys a set of Sharpie pens: she’s a fan of fine point and it just so happened that it came with the colors she needed. Red and green.

Her resolution is simple: record her days, good and bad. Not quite healthy, but to her it feels like the only sense of control she has anymore. By doing this, she can search for a pattern. Maybe better understand what’s happening to her, how quickly, and by the grace of whatever God might exist, she can prepare.

Secretly, it’s also a way for her to remember the good days when the bad ones seem never-ending.

Green is good.

The day after New Year’s, when she and Bellamy stumble their way to brunch and eat their weight in waffles to combat the hangovers. Any weirdness she had feared would be there after the brief moment of intimacy shared at the party disappeared quickly, and they found themselves deep in conversation for hours that day. Brunch, in between naps, as he cooked dinner and they watched the episodes of Jeopardy added to Netflix, proceeding to turn it into their own little competition – Bellamy won solely because he was good a Final Jeopardy. Nerd.

Green.

The day Lincoln called to tell her one of her paintings was being looked at by a home goods company for mass production.

When she and Bellamy spent an entire Saturday digging through crates at every local record store and she found a pressing of Jeff Buckley’s _Grace_ for only .99 cents. They returned back to the apartment with arms full of records, some she had never heard and others she had the pleasure of introducing him to. Listening to _Hallelujah_ as she drew while he sat on the floor, leaning against her knees and reading _Catcher in the Rye._

Trivia nights with Bellamy and his friends. Trading references with Miller, planting tips with Monty, and stories with Harper. Picking out baby clothes with Harper at Target.

Green.

Days she wakes up and her vision hasn’t changed. Days of reading, writing, painting, living. Days of normalcy. Days she could forget.

And there’s red.

Running into the coffee table on her way to the bathroom. Missing the last stair on her way to do laundry. Every toe stub, every knee bang. Pulling her glasses from the depths of her drawer so she can finish _Les Miserables_ (the abridged version, of course, because anyone who has the time and energy to read the full version is “insane” according to Bellamy). Lincoln tossing her the keys to the gallery and her missing them completely.

Red.

Days when the the loneliness creeps up on her quietly. She hasn’t written Wells back and Raven has been so busy with work, she can hardly even send a text. Bellamy has returned to school, his semester more packed than ever with almost a full course load to teach or assist with, along with beginning revisions on his dissertations. He becomes a rare sight during the week, hardly coherent when he returns home from a long day at school and usually choosing to go to bed rather than sit on the couch with her to catch up. Not that she blames him, she understands. And still, something lodges in her chest.

Red.

When she realizes just how many days she has to mark this way, how many days she spends not doing much at all because she can’t. Or maybe because she won’t. Instead she gets angry, tears up a sketch or tosses the book she attempts to read to the floor. She locks herself away and she thinks, maybe they were right. Maybe she is hiding.

Red.

Perhaps she preemptively marks today as red, but she knows regardless of the outcome, the doctor is never pleasant.

(Even if it were just routine, if she weren’t progressively going blind and here for a yearly exam, she’d mark it red. The dilation alone sucks.)

She tries to find humor in it where she can. She puts her name and birth date on the sign in sheet while the receptionist checks her in. She likes to browse the names above her, plays a little game to see where the shortest age gap is. The second youngest person is typically still well within their late fifties. The oldest person is nearing a hundred. She sits down, watches as grown children help their elderly parent, grandparent, with their thick sunglasses and oxygen tanks. There is an ache in her chest as she watches, and she convinces herself it’s the sad reality of growing older.

(It isn’t. It’s that same loneliness, the one that is always on the verge of collapse within her.)

She jokes with the assistant who dilates her eyes. She’s had it done plenty of times before, but still she flinches away from the liquid and it takes double the amount of attempts it should to finally get it right. They take their pictures, she does their eye tests and tries to sound confident when she answers. The red dot disappears more than it appears, but she manages to hold herself together. She only makes it to the third line before she stops trying to pretend she can make out the letter.

She’s sweating when she’s finally led into the exam room, Dr. Jackson sitting on his same squeaky stool clicking through pictures and spouting off fancy terms to his assistant. She furiously types as he talks. Clarke sits, waiting for him to finish projecting the images on the television screen attached to the wall.

One thing she appreciates about her doctor is that he doesn’t have much time to beat around the bush. He’s a busy man and his waiting room is full of cataracts and degenerative disorders.

“Your left eye seems to be progressing quicker than your right,” he tells her, pointing at the screen, “Have you noticed any difference since the last time I saw you?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know. Some days it feels like my depth perception is off. Or like, I can’t really see what’s next to me. But other days I feel fine.”

“Clarke, this isn’t something that fluctuates. It’s progressive, meaning when it worsens, it isn’t going to get better.”

She shouldn’t be upset because she _knew_ it. Even when she was doing her best to ignore it, when she convinced herself that her good days really were _good_ because her vision had decided to cooperate. But the blunt fact hits her squarely in the face, combined with the overwhelming jumps from test to test, the realization that _holy fuck, it's getting worse,_ she breaks.

To his credit, Dr. Jackson hands her a tissue and waits out the violent sobs crashing through her chest rather than trying to continue forward. She tries to pull herself together quickly.

_Hold it together. You still have time. You can still see, even if it isn’t like you used to. You’ll be okay. It’s okay. It’s okay._

“I know this is tough,” Dr. Jackson finally says, voice laced with sympathy, “But this disease is fickle. I wish I could give you a time frame or tell you with certainty just how bad it’s going to get. The best I can do is be 100% honest with you about where you’re at. It is getting worse, Clarke. Your tests indicate your peripheral has deteriorated quickly. I would start preparing for that loss sooner rather than later.”

“And what do you recommend for that?” she asks bitterly.  

“Talk it over with the people in your life. Practice with a cane. Figure out how to navigate around obstacles so you don’t hurt yourself.”

 _Practice being blind,_ is what she hears and she wants to scream. She wants to run from the room and keep running until she can’t breathe, until she can shout into the void. How is this fair? How do you prepare for something like this, really? She’s spent 25 years with sight, with everything it has to offer and now he’s telling her to live without it, like he’s telling her to live without chocolate or soda. It’s not that easy.

He tries to go over the rest of her tests quickly, wrapping up and leaving her with a gentle pat on the shoulder as he moves onto the next patient. His assistant prints off her paperwork, schedules her with another appointment three months from now at the doctor’s request.

By the time she exits the building, she’s damn near falling apart.

* * *

When she gets back to the apartment, empty save for Catsby curled up on the corner of her bed, she digs the pocket calendar out of her drawer. 31 days into her resolution, she quits. She tears the pages out of the calendar and shreds them with shaking fingers, sprinkling the remnants into the trash can near her dresser.

_This isn’t something that fluctuates. It’s progressive, meaning when it worsens, it isn’t going to get better._

She’s been blissfully naive, or maybe it was purposeful. She had convinced herself that the good days were good because her vision was better. And maybe part of her had hoped that she would be a lucky one, that the progression would be slow and inconsistent for years to come and she could live perfectly normal. Stupid. It was stupid.

No, her good days were good because they were days she didn’t think about it, at least, not really. Those days where she was busy at work, painting or helping Lincoln with gallery, she didn’t have time to think about it. Lincoln never treated her differently or made her feel like a charity case, and perhaps that was the difference.

Days with Bellamy, the best ones, made her forget. She could feel like a normal girl, record shopping or discussing books or debating trivial topics. He made her feel okay. Like everything in the world was okay and she _hates_ that because it’s not fair to either of them. Not fair for her to rely on someone who doesn’t even know this part of her. He’s exposed himself completely to her, laying everything out there. Told her about his past, his sister, his fears, his hopes and dreams. Yet, she can’t tell him anything and still uses him for her own benefit. Raven and Wells were right about her: she fixates on things so she doesn’t have to face reality. Bellamy doesn’t deserve to be a fixation. He deserves the world.

Catsby meows from his place on her bed, tilting his head as if sensing her crisis. She sits down next him, laying a gentle hand on his head as she scratches his favorite spot.

“What do I do?” she whispers to him. But of course he doesn’t answer. Once again she’s met with silence and she wonders if it’s better that way.

* * *

In her head, pulling away seems like the best option. She and Bellamy got comfortable much too fast, and she can’t seem to shake this feeling of codependency. When he’s available, she always makes a point to be with him. Whether in the same space or going out together. Coffee shops and grocery stores and dinner and movies.

She doesn’t realize how much her life revolves around his until she stops trying to make it.

It’s easy, at first. Bellamy is so busy with school he’s hardly home and when he is, he’s dead on his feet and less talkative than usual. But then he manages to drop two classes, thanks to his mentor realizing he was carrying to heavy a load for someone preparing to submit their dissertation and suddenly, he’s home by six and preparing dinner with a smile.

She eats with him, engaging in small talk about work and school and her most recent read. She doesn’t tell him she hasn’t read in nearly two weeks, just pretends she’s reading _Slaughterhouse Five,_ using what she remember from college to make it seem as though she’s reading for the first time. She goes to her room shortly after dinner, with excuses of being tired or having to open the gallery early and he doesn’t complain, but asks her to join him for a smoke. He’s reaching for her, she knows it, because he _knows_ somethings not right.

She hadn’t realized just how close they had become, really, but living together so closely provides a weird intuition to one another’s feelings, it seems. The entire month of February passes like this before he finally breaks.

She stands to go to her room, half-eaten bowl of chili in her hand when he reaches out and grabs her wrist. His expression is thoughtful as he searches for what he wants to say, but he finally settles on, “Is everything okay?”

A simple questions with a simple answer: no, it’s not. How easily she could explain, clear the air and finally let him know. But once again, it catches in her throat, burrows there so that when she tries to coax it out it can’t physically do it.

“Fine,” she smiles weakly, “Just tired.”

His hand stays on her wrist, “You just seem...distant.” When she doesn’t answer, he releases her wrist and leans back with a sigh, “I know that sounds weird, especially since we’ve known each other for, what, six months? But I like to think I’ve gotten to know you pretty well, or I had, and it just seems like something’s going on and it was killing me not asking.”

Her legs pull her back down to the couch automatically, and she runs her finger along the chipped edge of her bowl. There’s so much she wants to say, yet she can’t figure out how. He’s reaching for her with both hands and God, she wants to grab them. Wants her to pull her out and tell her everything is going to be okay.

But isn’t that the problem? He can’t be her savior. She won’t let him, refuses to put him in that position. Refuses to see herself as someone in need of saving.

This is her burden and she has to figure out how to live with it. But, as she looks at him, sees the sadness lining the smooth features of his skin, she thinks that maybe distance isn’t the right answer either. Secluding herself, cutting people out whether it’s Bellamy or Wells or Raven, how is that helpful, in the end?

“I’m sorry,” she says finally. Maybe she can’t tell him what she’s sorry for, but she can apologize.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he responds, reaching out for her once more. His hand settles on top of hers, overtaking her petite fingers, warm and safe and suddenly, everything bottled up comes tearing out of her.

“Clarke, hey,” she feels the couch dip further underneath her as Bellamy scoots towards her, leans into the warmth of his arm as it wraps around her shoulders. He doesn’t ask. Just holds her as she cries, lets her stain the sleeve of his t-shirt with mascara without a single complaint. It may come down to that roommate intuition, knowing what the other needs without explanation. Like she had the first night on the roof.

She’s not sure how long they sit there, his hand rubbing soothing circles into her back, her tears bleeding through the cotton of his shirt.  But the tears do stop, and it’s different than the doctor’s office. She doesn’t feel embarrassed, doesn’t have the urge to run and burrow in her room. She just...feels. And she doesn’t want to stop, not quite yet.

So she presses her forehead into his neck, further allowing herself to fall into the embrace, and with a raw throat says, “Tell me a story.”

“What kind of story?”

“Any story.”

He pulls her into the cushions with him, adjusting them so that she laid with her back to his chest and his legs on either side of her. Tomorrow she’ll over analyze this, but for now she lets it happen. Welcomes it.

His lips are next to her ear, his breath ghosting along her cheek as he starts. “Have you ever heard the story of the daughter of Helios?”

“No.” she smiles to herself.  

“Her name was Circe…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, sorry.  
> anyways, the next few chapters will have some reveals and some healing and some morbid humor, like i promised ages ago.  
> thank you to everyone for your kind words on this fic, it truly has meant the world to me.  
> and if you're wondering, yes, Clarke's entire doctor's appointment is solely based on my own experience at the ophthalmologist. i am always the youngest one there by at least thirty years. 
> 
> come hang on tumblr: octannibal-blake.tumblr.com  
> or twitter: @octannibalblake

**Author's Note:**

> this became a really personal thing to write for me. I don't have RP (this was much easier to explain in the fic), but I do have a degenerative eye disorder that will eventually lead to partial or full blindness. As of now, I still have ten or so years left of 'good' vision, but there's just something really jarring about knowing that one day, you won't be able to see. It's been very interesting and somewhat cathartic writing Clarke on this journey. 
> 
> comments and kudos are always appreciated (as is constructive criticism.) <3 
> 
> you find me and the photoset for this fic on [tumblr](https://octannibal-blake.tumblr.com)


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